


Moonflower

by Sunnybone



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Beauty and the Beast Elements, Canon Typical Violence, F/M, Light Angst, because Marianne, no TWSTD AU, reverse werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26264329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnybone/pseuds/Sunnybone
Summary: Lorenz is returning from a trip in Kupala when a storm causes him to seek shelter at a seemingly abandoned noble estate. A beautiful young woman named Marianne seems to be the only inhabitant, and she allows him to stay as long as he promises to leave at dawn. In the morning when he tries to thank her for her hospitality, he discovers a terrible monster in her place.A Beauty and the Beast AU written for theUltra Rarepair Big Bang!
Relationships: Marianne von Edmund/Lorenz Hellman Gloucester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 57
Collections: 2020 Ultra Rarepair Big Bang





	Moonflower

**Author's Note:**

> I had the pleasure of working with two wonderful artists who made absolutely gorgeous pieces, [@Fe3hSins](https://twitter.com/Fe3hSins) and [@VharzosiNSFW](https://twitter.com/VharzosiNSFW)! Please go check them out and give them some love!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who encouraged and supported me through writing this! 💖

Lorenz is not lost— _perish_ the thought—but he is, perhaps… a bit diverted.

The problem, of course, is a combination of what is clearly an outdated map and the sudden turn in the weather; the map Lorenz must take responsibility for, but the weather he couldn’t possibly have expected.

His ride home from Kupala had so far been pleasant, and perfectly according to plan. He’d plotted out a course that should take him through enough towns to avoid sleeping rough, and should be reasonably safe from bandits—though of course as a graduate of the Royal Academy of Sorcery, Lorenz can certainly handle _bandits_. 

What his magic cannot handle is the storm that had rolled in over the treetops, low and heavy and darkening the sky alarmingly. Not being local, he hadn’t accounted for the rainy season’s quick turns, and now he can barely see through the pouring rain and the whipping branches. This accounts for his… _diverted_ state, as he had somehow left the path and gotten turned about in the woods. 

What Lorenz needs, more than getting back on the proper path, is shelter until the storm abates, at which point he could _find_ the proper path again. He does his best to keep the branches from buffeting him or his poor horse, and in searching for a clearing he finds himself, luckily, on a path; not the _proper_ path, telling by the overgrown state of the worn cobbles, but seldom does a path in the woods lead to _nowhere_ , and his need for shelter is growing.

So Lorenz follows the path, and at least the trees are far enough from each side of the old road to keep from being whipped by branches; the wind is still bitter, driving cold rain against him, and by the time he nearly bumps into a gate he’s shivering miserably and losing feeling in places where feeling ought not be lost. The gate is in a similar state to the path, old metal set in a tall stone wall clung with vines, one wing of the gate hanging slightly crooked. He dismounts long enough to check the gate, and his luck once more seems to be turning—it isn’t chained, and the hinges creak but the gate still opens just wide enough that his horse should pass through.

He leads his mare through and tugs the gate closed again, and when he turns he finds himself in an open space—a courtyard, he supposes, for what is probably an abandoned estate. He squints through the rain, an arm pressed to his forehead in an attempt to block the water running into his eyes, and barely makes out what appears to be the shape of a structure. Lorenz leads his horse towards it, and when he is finally close enough to make out a stable, he sighs in relief and enters.

The sudden cease of rain and wind pounding down on him once the door is closed behind them makes him sag, and he leans for a second against his horse’s side, rubbing a hand down the side of her neck. Then he straightens and sets about finding a stall for her, and any supplies he might use to dry and brush her, all the while murmuring soft about what a splendid horse she is and how wonderfully she’s done to carry him through such nasty weather. 

This is how he discovers the other horse.

In one of the stalls there is a gray horse, calm and well-fed and well-groomed; there is, in fact, a ribbon threaded in a braid through its mane, in a soft sky blue that compliments the cloudy color of its coat. When Lorenz extends his palm, it gives him a sniff and consents to a pat of its velvety nose.

“Well,” he says to no one in particular, and turns back to settling his own horse in for the night, his mind working. Obviously Lorenz is not the only person here, and from the state of the horse he can hope that whoever _is_ here will be civil; he has never run across a bandit who delicately braided their horse’s mane in such a manner, but of course there is always a first time. Still, this gives him hope that whoever this person may be, they might point him back towards the proper path (and, perhaps, give his faulty map a look over).

Once his horse is suitably stabled, Lorenz digs through his travel-packs and is glad to find their weatherproofing has mostly held; he lifts the one with his clothing onto his shoulder and pauses by the door of the stables, breathing in one deep breath to steel himself before he dashes back out into the rain.

The wind is still strong, but the rain has lightened just enough to make the courtyard clear: A disused fountain in the center, rounded with vines like the gate had been and floating lilies in its grand bowl, overflowing with the rain; across from the stable at the other side of the courtyard, there is what might be a chapel; and in the center, across from the gate, a sprawling manse. He heads directly for the main house, and he is unsurprised to find the large doors unbolted.

For a moment he stands in the entry, quietly dripping onto the floor, and breathes into the gloom. The sun has set, he would guess, and the darkness of the storm does little to help him see his surroundings. Lorenz lifts a hand and lets the smallest spark of flame rest in his palm, warming as it lights the room, and an involuntary shiver rolls through him.

The entryway of the main house is high-ceilinged to accommodate a staircase that climbs up before splitting, one side leading off deeper into the building while the other loops back on itself, crossing like a bridge over the hall before joining back to its fellow in a landing. Cobwebs hang from it, screaming disuse, but he doesn't immediately see _dilapidation_. The floor, when he looks down, is dusty flagstone upon which he is still steadily dripping.

Right. Find this other person, make a proper introduction, and then for the love of the Saints get _dry_.

Lorenz decides to check the lower levels first, judging by the dust on the stairs, and he moves through an archway into a wide hall lined with similarly wide arches and doors. It's dark, still, no torches or candles in any of the cobwebbed sconces that pepper the walls, but there's a disturbance to the dust on the floor that suggests _someone_ has been through. He follows down the hall until the track turns through another archway, and following the new hall he eventually sees light ahead seeping from the crack of an ajar door.

Lorenz pauses and looks down at himself, grimacing; his travel clothes aren't his very nicest, of course, and they are positively soaked, but that doesn't mean he wishes to greet this stranger whilst looking like a drowned cat. There is little to do about it, but he shakes flame out of his palm and uses both hands to at _least_ attempt to arrange his hair to seem less like some wild water nymph dripping purple seaweed.

That done, he straightens, lifts his chin to something like unbothered confidence, and strides to the door; he peeks through just before knocking, because it would be the height of folly to knock only to announce himself to a group of very quiet bandits with equestrian sensibilities, and the fall of his knuckles against the door is softened by surprise.

Quite possibly the loveliest woman Lorenz has ever seen whirls at the knock, a cup falling from her hands to shatter across the floor of a kitchen as her hand goes to her throat.

There is a lantern set on a counter illuminating a portion of the kitchen, and it throws a golden tone over the scene; the woman is small, or seems small because of the billowing robe she wears, belted tight at her waist and covered in a shawl that is almost so comically large it could be mistaken for a blanket. Her hair, loose and curling in disarray, is a soft blue that reminds him of the ribbon in the horse’s mane, and he supposes she must be the horse’s owner.

Most important, perhaps, is that her feet are bare on a floor now littered with broken porcelain, and he holds his hands out in what he hopes is a reassuring, calming gesture.

“I apologize most fervently for startling you, my good lady. Please, do be careful, and allow me to clean this mess before you harm yourself due to my mistake.” She blinks, the hand at her throat uncurling in surprise, and then she looks down at the shards of cup spread across the floor and carefully backs away. She says nothing, only glances up at him from beneath her lashes, face still tilted down; it’s a move more wary than coy.

He doesn’t blame her, of course—he is a strange man, and as far as he can tell they are alone in an _incredibly_ isolated place. It’s not the type of situation he suspects most women would be very comfortable in.

Lorenz steps into the room and gives her a polite bow, “Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.” When he straightens, she mumbles something too quiet to hear, licks her lips, and then tilts her face just the smallest bit towards him. She doesn’t quite make eye contact, settling somewhere around his nose.

“Marianne,” she says, a bit louder, but still soft.

“Again, I apologize for startling you, Miss Marianne,” he says in the sort of tone you’d reserve for a spooked horse, quiet and calm and harmless. “I was caught in the storm when I found this estate and sought shelter.” He watches her eyes move down his damp traveling costume and muddy boots to the wet trail of drips he is still tracking in his wake, before settling back around his chin this time. “Are you also sheltering from the storm?” he asks, as he takes another step into the room and then bends to begin picking up the largest shards of the cup.

He is inwardly lamenting the appearance of the shards—high quality bone porcelain to his discerning eye—when Marianne says, just a bit louder, “No. This… um, this is my home.” He glances up at her, but she is looking at his hand, held flat and open with the pieces of cup resting on the palm.

“Then I must apologize once more for so rudely intruding.” That snaps her eyes up for a second, and for a moment he is frozen in place, marveling at the way her lashes frame her eyes; they are brown, he suspects, but the lantern and her posture throw shadows that make colors a guess, and she looks away too quickly. He thaws while still wondering.

“No,” she says, "the storm was quite rough." He follows her gaze to a small window, the panes of glass still streaking with rain, and looks back to find her biting her lip and furrowing her brow. "Of course you needed shelter. You are welcome to stay," she adds, her voice soft even as she continues to avoid looking at him, "but you must leave by dawn."

At this, she meets his eyes at last, and the jolt of surprise through him at having her complete focus makes him clench his hand around the shards; he hisses as a sliver digs into his palm, and she steps forward with a little gasp, bending to catch his hands.

Her own hands are small and cool, not exactly rough but definitely not the silky softness of a noblewoman's skin; she works to live, he supposes, and he barely notices as she unfurls his grip and gently plucks the shard from his flesh, too fixated on the serious set of her mouth and the way her healing spell throws soft light on her face. The wary shyness disappears, gone behind the focus of a healer, and Lorenz studies her in this moment—her nose is straight and small and the tiniest bit upturned, her mouth soft even twisted in concentration, her chin coming to a point. Her eyes are indeed brown, large and expressive and ringed with lashes so dark he might think she’d lined them with kohl, if the rest of her face weren’t bare and she didn’t appear to be dressed for bed.

Altogether, she really _is_ the most beautiful woman Lorenz has seen.

He recalls that they are alone, and she has offered him hospitality, and despite her wariness and it being his own fault she had rushed to heal an injury that surely could have been treated with a simple bandage. Shame at his thoughts rushes through him, and he pulls his gaze from her face to his hand, where the cut has knit itself together without a trace of injury.

“Thank you,” he says, and she jolts and drops his hand, as if she is only now realizing she had touched him at all. “You’re quite skilled.” It’s true; Lorenz’s faith magic is paltry at best, and though he could have closed such a simple wound he would have certainly had a scar to remember his foolishness.

“It was nothing,” she says, turning away to set the shard on a counter before her hands clasp in front of her, fingers worrying together. After another moment of silence, she looks him in the face again, solemn and serious. “You must leave by dawn,” she repeats.

“Then I shall leave by dawn, and be grateful of your hospitality in the intervening hours,” he says, standing with another little bow.

“Oh!” He straightens, and her cheeks are pink, perhaps with embarrassment— “I-I’m so sorry, you’re soaked, you must be cold. Would you like some tea?” Lorenz stares at her for a moment in a daze.

“You needn’t trouble yourself—” he begins, and Marianne shakes her head, turning away.

“It’s no trouble,” she says, quiet as she moves towards a cupboard, retrieving two cups and busying herself with a teapot he hadn’t noticed by the lamp. “Is lavender alright? O-or, I have chamomile or mint? I’m afraid I only have blends from my gardens…”

Lorenz smiles at her sheepish look; it isn’t his favorite, but it’s well enough for a late night tea, and it’s from her own gardens, and he is a _guest_. “Lavender would be lovely.” 

She looks at him, biting her lip, and says, “You probably want to get dry, and it’s late…” Marianne glances again at the window. “If you don’t mind, I could show you to a room, and you could take tea there?”

Lorenz understands—it is late, he is unexpected and not _entirely_ welcome, and Marianne must have been preparing for bed when he appeared. The sooner she settles him away, the sooner she may get back to her own schedule, and the sooner he shall be gone.

“Shall I carry anything for you?” is all he asks, and he’s not surprised to see her posture relax in what he guesses is relief. 

She has him carry the lantern because of his bag, and she sets the teapot and cups on a tray before leading him back out of the kitchen and along his own trail, back to the entrance hall. They climb the stairs, the dust there stark and undisturbed, and Lorenz guesses she is leading him into a disused part of the house, probably far from her own quarters; this is fine, acceptable if it brings her comfort, but his brow still furrows at the room she takes him to.

It’s far too large to be guest quarters, and a servant’s wing is out of the question. Lorenz would guess it was the Lord’s suite, and it surprises him that she would choose not to live in it, and to place him there as a guest. But looking at the dust everywhere, he thinks perhaps it’s too much for one lone woman to maintain, and besides it’s hardly important.

Marianne lights a candle in a seemingly ancient fixture, pours herself a single cup to take with her, leaving him the pot, and reminds him one final time that he must be gone by dawn; then she leaves him.

Lorenz peels himself out of his wet clothing, dries and redresses, and wraps his hands around the warmth of his cup before turning the pillows dust-down and removing the top blanket. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than sleeping in the mud under some bush, and the bed is soft and warm enough when he slips into it.

Cold and exhausted, Lorenz is asleep almost as soon as he settles himself.

🌕

At first when Lorenz awakes, he is disoriented. Dim light drifts in through a window, and it takes him a moment to recall how he had come to be in this room—dusty, cobwebbed, but richly appointed. By the time he remembers _how_ he came to be here, he also recalls that he must _leave here_ by dawn, and he hopes the gloomy light is _dawn_ light.

When he rises from the bed and twitches back a curtain that might once have been cream but has gone grey with time, he sighs in relief—the sun is still low.

Lorenz hurries to dress properly for travel, gathers his things together and collects the previous night’s pot and cup upon their tray, and begins to return to the kitchens. He must thank Marianne for allowing him to shelter in her home, as is only proper, and also ask if she might check his map and direct him back to the road he had intended to be on. As he moves through the house in the wan morning light, he marvels at the finery beneath the dust; with a proper staff, this would be a home befitting a noble, suitable even for a Margrave or a Count by Lorenz’s best guess. None of it seems damaged, simply neglected.

When he enters the kitchen his brow furrows to see the floor still littered with pieces of the cup he had caused Marianne to break. This wouldn’t be too odd, it’s early enough she might still be abed, and she might have left the porcelain splinters for daylight—but in daylight, Lorenz sees there is a door almost tucked in the corner which must lead outside.

The door is ajar.

Lorenz sets down the tea tray and goes to the door, looks out onto a small courtyard with a well; it looks like a loading area for kitchen goods, and beyond a low wall with an open iron gate he can see green. He steps out into the courtyard, passes the well (covered, but the rope and bucket look new), passes a chicken coop where he can hear a soft clucking, and walks out of the gate to a patch of cultivated land. It’s a vegetable garden impressive in size for one woman to tend, all of it green and seemingly thriving.

Lorenz looks out at the garden, supposes Marianne probably rose early to tend to all those sorts of pre-dawn tasks that seem to go with raising your own food sources, but something about it all seems off to him.

Why had she insisted he must leave by dawn? So very firm and solemn, when she could hardly meet his eyes over the rest of their conversation? The night before he had been exhausted and simply grateful for shelter, and hadn't examined the requirement beyond a young woman fearing to be alone with a strange man.

Now he feels unease about the oddness of her demand.

At the far side of the garden there is an arching trellis path, the shadows within as dripping and verdant as the thick coverage of vines twining across the shaped wood. Lorenz moves towards it almost without thinking, and as he draws close a scent of flowers meets him; white and pale pink roses nod at him along the inside of the trellis, climbing up nearly to the arched roof. As he steps inside of the pathway, follows it, he’s met with clusters of clematis, the burgundy color of wine and smelling like almonds. Further on he finds the first bit of honeysuckle, dripping remnants of the rain on him as it dangles from above.

Normally, the calm and simple beauty of the slightly green light and the heavy scent of damp earth and rich flowers would soothe him, put him in a mood for poetry, but instead his unease grows as the flowering vines thicken and so does the shadow. Everything is very dim and damp indeed when he finally encounters the cause, the _justification_ —

He rounds a corner and there in the shadows at the end of this straight, huddled before another turn in the arched maze, is a hulking figure Lorenz cannot make out in full.

Lorenz can see enough, though—a pale glow emanates from its massive head, its many eyes, and glints from the jagged teeth in its monstrous mouth, from the tips of horns as it turns its gaze upon _him_. He lifts a hand on reflex, flame bursting into yellow and orange warmth in his palm, half in sudden self-defense and half at the thought that _this creature might have hurt Miss Marianne_.

The flame flares with his shock when the beast lets out a low, drawn out groan of “No!” Lorenz shudders even as it turns and whips away around the corner, faster than he had expected from its bulk, and he follows—he must find Miss Marianne before she falls afoul of this beast and its teeth, if she hasn’t already…

After the turn, snagged among the thorns of an unruly rose branching into the path, are several long, curling hairs; they are soft sky blue, and Lorenz’s stomach sinks.

He straightens, breathes deep of the damp air, fills his lungs with resolve.

Lorenz tracks the creature out of the trellised path into a second, wild garden, though he has no great skill for it; the trail is obvious, great gouges in the earth from running claws, grass bent and leaves and blossoms torn from their vines by its passing. By the time he comes to what seems almost like its den, he could have tracked it by sound alone—it is making some kind of loud snuffling, choking sound.

He finds it, finally, at the corner of the garden, its bulk tucked into a weathered gazebo. The sides of the gazebo are trellised and covered in thick green leaves and tight twists of white buds, and the creature is curled away so that all Lorenz can see of it is great spikes like bone arcing from its back, a huge scaled tail curling around itself as it hunches and makes that awful noise.

As he moves closer, palms raised and burning, Lorenz thinks that he does not particularly wish to kill or even fight this beast; violence has never been in his nature, but there are oaths he swore at the Academy about how he would use the knowledge he gained there, and duties he has as a noble—this is not Gloucester, Marianne is not his subject, but it matters little if she is in danger or has already been harmed. 

"The woman who lives here," he says, in his best Confident Young Nobleman voice, loud and clear and much calmer than he feels, and the creature jolts and the sniffling noise chokes out. "Have you harmed her?"

There is silence for a moment, and Lorenz looks closer, sees much of the scaled form is covered in cloth, blue and familiar— "You were supposed to _leave_ ," it says, its voice low and rumbling but… anxious? _Sad_?

He steps closer, brows furrowing, the familiarity of the garment scratching at his mind, and when he's close enough to see the wisps of sky-blue around the creature's horns he realizes the horrible snuffling had been _crying_ and he suddenly knows where he has seen these clothes— 

Lorenz shakes the fire from his palms, climbs up one, two steps to the edge of the gazebo and sees it's filled with blankets and cushions like a nest, watches as the great horned head turns to him, each glowing eye like moonstone fixing on him. He reaches out a tentative hand, says, "Miss Marianne?"

For _just_ a second, she looks at him, and then each eye becomes a brilliant garnet and in a low and pained roar she almost _howls_ , "You were supposed to _leave_!"

Lorenz _knows_ the sudden terror that grips him isn't rational—he knows, even as he stumbles backwards down the steps and flees back through the garden, that the fear is not his own. It's a panic that wraps vice-fingers around his sensibility, and the scholar in him knows it's a magical compulsion, a defensive mechanism that Marianne may not even know she had employed. But Lorenz has never felt a thing like this, never studied or practiced repelling a magical fear, and he can only watch himself stumbling and panting back to the stables to collect his horse and flee.

And—damn it, he still doesn’t have any idea where on the map he is, not that the unease latched to his spine is letting him think about it as he rides through the gate and out onto the broken path and probably misplaces himself even _more_ hopelessly. The fear wears off slowly, the shivers in his fingers and the chattering of his teeth stopping long before the cold sweat.

Maybe it is the smell of his fear that draws them out.

It is not anywhere near dusk, and it is not even Red Wolf Moon, but that doesn’t stop the pack of wolves Lorenz finds himself encircled by from existing. He can only laugh mirthlessly at his luck, and be glad that his horse is a magehorse, trained against skittishness in the proximity of magic; he calls fire to his hands again, watches wolves circling, knows it is the wolf he does _not_ see that will get him.

And he tries—he really does—but outnumbered and surrounded and honestly exhausted from his flight and the dregs of fear, it’s not long before strong jaws close on his calf and he yells in pain, yanked from his saddle. Lorenz hits the ground in a daze, wind knocked out of him, and he’s dimly aware of radiating pain from probably-broken bones and definitely-torn flesh as he is dragged. 

He can see his horse bucking and kicking at a wolf approaching her hindquarters even as he gasps to regain his breath. He thinks _oh, my poor horse, not her too_ , and then there is a great crashing from the surrounding trees. Lorenz has a moment to wonder _what fresh hell_ before a particularly vigorous yank of teeth in his leg flares pain through him and his vision whites out, his consciousness fleeing.

🌕

Lorenz wakes disoriented for a second time, though this time it’s less about lack of sleep and more about _pain_.

His whole body is a throbbing ache, and it takes him a moment of blinking at a wall before he understands he is in a bed again, indoors again, and remembers what had occurred in the woods with the wolves. He turns his face towards the ceiling, tries to sit up, and the pain rises and crests as he groans.

Lorenz lies still, waits for the pain to roll over him and subside, and takes stock of the room he’s in.

It’s small and relatively clean, with a window at the opposite wall that lets in some daylight around the shadow of vines crossing the panes of glass. Under the window is a desk, scattered with books and papers and an unlit candelabra, and on the other walls hang two embroidered tapestries: a depiction of the goddess, and a collection of birds in flight. Across from the desk and window in the corner of the room is a door, standing open. The bed he’s in is almost too small for Lorenz, made to fit one person, probably a child; the bedding is patterned with flowers in pinks and white, and Lorenz guesses this might be a young girl’s room.

The pain banks low enough that Lorenz tries moving again, cautious this time, and he pushes upright to prop himself on the pillows. He turns back the corner of the blanket that covers him to check his injuries and finds his right leg bandaged and splinted; Lorenz bites back a groan, because a splint means wherever he is there is probably not a healer skilled in faith magic around. He hopes there is at least someone capable and willing to take a message to his father, because Lorenz certainly won’t be riding any time soon— 

He _does_ groan now, remembering his horse, and he brings a hand to his face. He doesn’t see the figure cramped in the doorway, and his whole body jolts at a rumbling but quiet, “I’m sorry.” Lorenz hisses in pain as his eyes fly open and his hand drops to his chest in shock, and he watches as Marianne, massive and beastly, cringes back out of sight with another anguished apology.

“It’s alright, it’s…” he trails off, realizing _where_ he is. “Uh. Hm. Miss Marianne?” There’s a sound outside of the door, and he tries again. “That _is_ you, isn’t it?”

There’s another sound, and then, tentative, “Yes?” She doesn’t come back into the room, no matter how long he waits, and he frowns and looks around again. If this _is_ her home, this room is far too well kept in comparison to the rest of the house to be anything but lived in, which means he is probably imposing upon Marianne’s own living space.

The delicate bedding, the tapestries, the books strewn across the desk, seem completely at odds with his memory of jagged teeth, glowing eyes, curling horns. There’s an old, bitter remnant of fear at the back of his throat, but he’s more curious than anything. Lorenz cannot forget Marianne’s hands soft and sure around his as she healed him, or the horrible guttural _weeping_ as he’d cornered her in her garden.

He settles on the easiest questions to answer, first.

“Are you still there, Miss Marianne?” He hears a shifting outside of the door and a ‘yes’ so soft and small it’s hard to imagine it coming from the figure he’d seen in the garden. “Could you explain how I came to be here?”

“Oh… yes. Um. I followed you, after you left, because I remembered the wolves.” This reminds _him_ — 

“My horse—” he starts, and there’s another noise of shifting.

“Oh, Lady is fine, she’s in the stable with Dorte. She was quite upset, but once I convinced the wolves to go and reassured her you’d be cared for, she calmed down just fine.” Lorenz’s brow furrows; _convinced_ the wolves, _reassured_ his horse? And had he mentioned his mare was named Lady? Questions to put away for later.

“Thank you; both for myself and my dear Lady.” He _does_ love his horse, she’d been a gift from his friend Ferdinand, and it would be difficult to tell the man something had happened to the poor girl, especially something as vicious as _wolves_. 

There’s a long pause of silence, and just when Lorenz is beginning to think Marianne might have gone, she says, “I’m sorry, for frightening you.” He frowns again, wonders if that’s why they are having a conversation through a doorway.

“It’s alright; I don’t believe you meant to. I only have a limited academic knowledge of compulsion,” he admits, “but if I’d been better prepared I believe I might have repelled it.”

There is no pause this time before a deep murmur of, “Compulsion?”

“Your fear spell.”

“I don’t… I can’t _use_ magic when I’m like this.” She sounds confused, and a bit upset, and Lorenz hums slightly as he thinks.

“It’s possible it’s a skill you only have _when_ you are like this. Speaking of which,” he begins, and there’s another sound of movement, “if I may ask…?” 

“You’re really not… you aren’t afraid of me?” Soft, hopeful, but _doubting_.

Lorenz is quiet a moment, thinking. “You showed me hospitality, and you haven’t done me any actual harm. In fact, you rescued me. I don’t believe I’m afraid of you; should I be?”

Silence, silence, and then, a massive head slowly peeks into the room; it’s no less surprising than before, the many eyes like glowing jewels and the jagged teeth, but the very meekness of her posture and the unruly fall of her hair around her horns and face creates something more frightened than frightening. For a moment they look at each other, and then her head dips, like she’s accepting something, and Marianne goes through the production that is maneuvering her frame through the doorway and into the room.

She ends up crouched at the foot of the bed, and even as she visibly tries to occupy as little space as possible, Marianne makes the room feel smaller just by being in it.

Lorenz takes a moment to look at Marianne again, now that there is adequate light and no threat of violence on either side. The parts of her that aren’t covered by the huge robe she had worn—now perfectly proportional—are covered in a mixture of scales and fur the color of her hair. Her hair falls loose and unruly around horns that jut from her head and great spikes arcing from her back. Her hands, clasped over her bent knees as she hunches, are scaled and sharp-clawed. With her head tipped down, it’s hard to make much of her face through the fall of her hair, but he remembers the shape, a rounded snout with sharp teeth jutting around her lips and a flat nose like a rabbit’s; the comparison strikes something, combines with her attitude to make Marianne seem harmless despite her size and shape.

He sighs and when she tilts her head he tries a smile. “No, I’m not afraid of you.”

It doesn't seem to reassure her the way he had expected; her head droops and her shoulders lower. "You probably should be," she says. "I'm cursed."

While Lorenz thinks that's rather obvious, he refrains from saying so. Instead, he says, “I’m not certain I’ve seen its like, but I’m not wholly unfamiliar with curses.” Curses and their dispelment were never Lorenz’s focus of study, but there had been some mandatory basic classes (simple things like Silence), and he’d known a few students during his time at the Academy who were studying curses. Marianne jolts, looking up at him in clear surprise, and a tail tipped with more curling blue hair wraps around her legs until she holds the tip in one great hand like a child might hold a doll or a comforting blanket.

“Familiar...with curses?” And, well, her shock shouldn’t be so surprising, Lorenz realizes. It’s not as though sorcery is very common, especially cursework—healing, basic fire spells, those can be taught in villages by anyone with the skill and patience and wherewithal. But curses are different, they’re high level magic requiring years of study and practice, and then years more just to _craft_ a curse. Most ‘curses’ people talk about are simply the result of bad luck, or superstitions, and no magic is involved at all. 

Clearly, this is not the case for Marianne.

“I’m a graduate of the Royal Academy of Sorcery,” he says, shifting himself slightly more upright against the pillows, “though curses were not my specialty.” Really, the best in his year for curses was Monica von Ochs, who as far as Lorenz knows is still _at_ the school even now. Marianne is still staring at him. “Oh, the school doesn’t _teach_ cursework, but one _must_ study curses if one is to dispel them,” he adds, in case that is the issue, but this only seems to shock her further.

“Dispel?” Lorenz blinks at her.

“Of course! Every curse can be broken, it’s just a matter of finding the method; some are situational, others might require counterspelling—Miss Marianne?” He watches as she lowers her bulk to sit on the floor, one clawed hand trembling as she reaches up and pushes hair back from her eyes.

“ _Every_ curse?” she asks, fingers at the end of her snout to curl over her mouth, as if releasing the question and its hopeful tone will bring disappointment.

“ _Every_ curse,” he answers. Her shoulders sag as some kind of tension leaves her, and he continues, “Perhaps you could tell me more of your situation? As I said, I’m no expert by any means, but when I’m well again to travel, I _do_ know a few people more versed who might assist.”

Again, she seems shocked. “As- _assist_?”

“In breaking your curse.” Marianne’s head ducks, but he sees the crinkle in her brow.

“Why?”

Lorenz doesn’t understand the question. “Why… would I break your curse?”

“Why would you _help_ me? I only—I’ve caused you trouble! I frightened you like a beast and you were _hurt_ because of me—”

It isn’t easy to interrupt her, her volume climbing with her distress, but Lorenz manages after two tries of her name, and when her attention is on him he asks, “Is that truly how you see it?” She doesn’t answer, only fidgets with the end of her tail. “I told you earlier, you allowed me to shelter from the storm, and you rescued me from the wolves and presumably tended my wounds. It’s only proper I repay your kindness in turn, and I certainly can’t ignore any condition which may cause you suffering.” It would be horrifically ignoble of him to turn a blind eye to her curse and go along his merry way.

She shifts, and Lorenz adds, “Please, I would like to help you, if I can.” Marianne lets out a sigh, a soft, relieved thing even as it gusts, and she nods and looks at him again.

“What do you need to know?” He hums in thought.

"I suppose everything you can tell me; how long you've been under the curse, the manners in which it affects you, anything you might know of the person who cast it or their reasoning." Marianne nods, shifts into a more comfortable sitting position.

"I don't know who cursed us, or why, only that it was a very, very long time ago. My father didn't know, at least." Lorenz watches her absently comb claws through the tuft of hair at the end of her tail. "The main line of my family is cursed; the firstborn child becomes… like me. A hideous beast except in the three days of the full moon,” she sighs, and Lorenz frowns. Such a long lasting curse, with such a visible effect, should surely have been discovered before _now_. How had a family supposedly hidden their state for generations?

“Has this never been studied before?” he asks, and she looks up with a tilt of her head. “In all of this time, no one has tried to break the curse?” Marianne turns to look out of the window, or to stare at the vines crawling across the panes.

“An ancestor, perhaps, but it was never spoken of. I only learned of the curse before it manifested for me; my father—” Marianne stops, and the glow of her eyes seems to dim. “He was a second son, and his brother died very young, but he said his father was like, like this, so he knew what would happen.” There’s no bitterness, where Lorenz can imagine he would be _quite_ bitter, if his father had brought him into the world knowing he would live a cursed life. But she speaks in past tense, and he supposes grief can foster quite a bit of forgiveness.

Or maybe Marianne is simply not the type for bitterness.

She continues, still gazing at the window, “We came here to live when I was still young; it _is_ my ancestral estate, but it was abandoned in my grandfather’s childhood, when the people discovered his father’s shape. Rumors of monsters have kept it relatively untouched over the years, and no one ever comes here purposely. You’re the first visitor I’ve had in… oh, years. The _only_ one who has _seen_ me.”

Lorenz wonders just how long Marianne has been here, in this cavernous, dusty house, _alone_.

She turns to look at him again, stops playing with her tail. “May we continue later?” He nods, it is surely a difficult subject, and there’s much for him to think about. Marianne seems to brighten. “Are you hungry? How is your pain? I’m sorry I couldn’t do better than basic healing measures, but I’ve never been able to use any magic in this… shape.” She clasps her hands together, holds them close to her stomach. “At the next full moon, I should be able to apply much stronger methods.”

“I am hungry, yes,” he answers, the question having brought his mind to his stomach. “And my pain is manageable. You needn’t apologize, this is far better than I could have tended myself.” She uncurls a bit from her guilty hunch, her hands still clasped but lowering from where they pressed anxiously to her sternum.

“I’ll bring you something to eat, and something for the pain,” she says, pushing herself up to stand awkwardly crouched in the small room, “and then you should probably rest more.”

🌕

Lorenz has four weeks of rest to wait for the next full moon, and once he gets a proper look at his leg he knows travel is out of the question without extensive healing, either magical or with time and nature.

There are things he must do at home, responsibilities he has, people who are probably worried by his absence, but there is little he can do about that for now. He chooses to focus instead on Marianne’s curse, which means getting to know Marianne and her home.

Marianne is quiet, not so much shy as unused to human company, and long conversations tire her at first. She’s nervous, painfully worried of saying anything that will upset him, often certain she has said or done something that requires apology. No matter how often he says she isn’t responsible for his injuries, she still looks guilty any time he expresses pain. It makes Lorenz careful when he speaks to her, and slowly she relaxes, opens to him.

In the days that follow that first morning of waking bandaged in her bed, Lorenz learns many things about Marianne.

Marianne talks to animals. Not in the way most people do—Marianne talks to animals, and animals talk _back_. She tells him she’s spoken with his horse, and Lady only has good things to say of him, which is as odd as it is flattering. More importantly, she’s able to negotiate the delivery of a letter with a raven who _only_ demands one of Lorenz’s shirt buttons. It makes Marianne smile behind a clawed hand, and it’s a small price to pay to make sure no one begins to worry Lorenz has died or some other nonsense.

Marianne grows all of her own food, subsists off of her garden and the eggs from her chickens, spends her full moons laying up food-stores for the winters or reading old books from the estate library. She brings him books to while away his time convalescing; he's still not well enough to walk the distance from her room, and they're both a bit mortified at the idea of Marianne _carrying_ Lorenz. He asks for history texts on the area and any personal writings her ancestors may have left, and eventually she offers him a slim book of poems, as well.

Marianne doesn't really _live_ in her home. She spends most of her time too big for cramped doorways and halls, so she stays outdoors. In fair weather she sleeps in the gazebo he'd discovered her in, and when the weather's foul she beds down in the stables with Dorte for company. Lorenz had apologized at first for taking her room, and she'd confessed she hadn't used it outside of full moons since she was fourteen—it hardens his resolve to end her curse, the thought that she has spent nearly nine years of her life this way.

The weeks pass more quickly than he expects them to, and a morning comes when it is not Marianne, bulky form crouching through the doorway, but Marianne, small and hesitant and _human_ , knocking at the door-frame with her knuckles before peering in from the hall.

He takes the sight of her in again, another daylight inspection; Lorenz had thought that perhaps he'd simply been exhausted and charmed by low lighting, but she's still beautiful when she comes into the room and hovers next to where he sits on the side of the bed, legs extended. It's late enough in the morning that he's up and dressed, part of a routine they've established, and he'd been just on the edge of worrying about where she was.

"Good morning." She greets him as soft as always, hands fiddling with the ends of the sash of the robe that once again dwarfs her. "I thought, um, I could have a look at healing your leg first thing?"

“Certainly. How would you like to proceed?” She has him lie back down and holds palms over his calf, her face set in concentration as she assesses the damage: the flesh and muscle torn by the wolf’s teeth, the bones snapped by the crushing force of its jaws. A little frown creases her forehead, which doesn’t bode well, even as warm light shines from her palms and the persistent ache in his muscles fades.

“I’m sorry,” she says, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. “It’s been long enough that you’ve built up scar tissue; your leg will heal, but it might give you trouble from time to time. Um, the bones seem to be healing with no issues, though. But…” she bites her lip. “I’m sorry. With these sorts of injuries, once it’s this far along in the healing, magical intervention can be more harmful than helpful; I could force the break to heal, but the bones would be weaker and susceptible to another break. It would be to your benefit to continue naturally.”

It's nearly the most she's said to him all at once, and she looks so horribly guilty.

“Please, Marianne,” he says as she ducks her head, “I’ve told you you needn’t apologize. If you recommend I wait, I’ll hardly press you to act in haste against your judgement." She nods, and then brightens a bit.

"I… can't make you well enough for hard travel, but I think I can strengthen enough that you could walk more easily?" She smiles, so small and quick he might have imagined it, and he wordlessly nods before she leans back over his calf. Another application of magic, warm and soothing, and she straightens away looking satisfied.

She helps him to stand and carefully test his weight, and when it holds they both release little sighs of relief. 

He follows her to the kitchen, then, and prepares tea as she cooks breakfast, eggs and fresh tomatoes and herbs from her garden. Over breakfast they agree Lorenz will change rooms; he doesn't feel right, putting her out of her room now that he can walk and tend to himself. Marianne suggests he return to the master suite, but they eventually decide on one of the smaller rooms near her own.

After breakfast they move what few belongings he has, and then Lorenz goes to the stables to see his horse while Marianne quietly shuts herself in her room before working in the garden. When he is sufficiently reacquainted with Lady, he walks around to the back of the main home through a side gate and comes out into the vegetable garden.

Marianne is kneeling among the rows, hands in the dirt, and the sight of her takes him aback for a second—she’s changed her clothes, from the billowing robe into a simple shirt and trousers, the shirt a bit broad on her frame and the trousers a bit long and rolled at the cuffs; they might once have been her father’s, he supposes. Her hair is tied back in a messy twist, locks already falling free across her nape, and for the moment she looks so unburdened it stuns him.

Marianne really and truly is beautiful.

He shakes himself out of his stupor and goes to join her, crouching to help her. At first Marianne protests that he is a _guest_ , but Lorenz says he’s certainly not occupied and while he’s by no means an experienced gardener he’d be happy to offer another set of hands. They work together in the garden most of the morning and then move to the kitchen for a light lunch. After, she shows him to the library and they search the shelves together, piling anything that might have use on one of the tables.

Marianne leaves him to pore over books while she goes about the rest of her day, and he’s surprised to find it’s evening when she brings candles and a tray of tea. 

They drink together while he tells her what he’s found—nothing yet on the curse, but a few very rare magic texts, one of which he is certain is out of production. She points out a few on faith magic she’d studied herself before her curse had begun, and they progress into a comfortable lull that leads to dinner. After dinner they part ways again, Lorenz returning to the library until his eyes grow heavy and he retires to bed.

The rest of the full moon plays out much the same—they meet for breakfast, work together in the garden, lunch and then search books together until Marianne leaves to work on her own projects around the estate, then dinner and more of the library before bed. Lorenz is surprised how quickly they seem to develop a routine, and how comfortable their conversations are when Marianne relaxes.

So he notices when Marianne goes quieter as the third day progresses, practically silent through dinner before excusing herself early. He lingers in the kitchen afterwards, debating on bringing her tea and trying to coax out what might be bothering her.

It proves unnecessary; as he's trying to decide whether lavender or chamomile is a more soothing tea, Marianne renters the kitchen. She's dressed again in her oversized robe, her hair loose down her back and her feet bare, and she looks up at him in shock when he turns.

It's a near recreation of their first meeting—if she'd been holding a cup, she certainly would have dropped it. Lorenz has a split second of gratitude that at least he's not drenched this time. “Tea?” he offers as she stands in the doorway, hand clutched to her chest, and he sets out two cups. “Chamomile? You seem to be getting ready for bed.”

“I… yes, thank you.”

He turns back to the cabinet to get the tea, begins to heat the water. “I thought that tomorrow after we work in the garden, I might bring some books out to the flower garden, if you’d be inclined to help research? I noticed what looked like a sitting area; the weather’s been lovely this last week, and I never object to flowers and sunshine.”

“You still want to help tomorrow?” She sounds surprised, and he glances at her over his shoulder as he’s measuring out the tea leaves.

“Why wouldn’t I? If this is a polite way of saying my assistance is more of a burden, you’re welcome to inform me if I’m being a nuisance.”

“No, I mean… I’ll be a monster again. Tomorrow.” Lorenz turns with the pot in hand, carries it to the butcher-block counter they tend to use as a table and sets it down, turns back for the cups.

“I’m not sure how that affects the gardening?”

He pours, and when he looks up at her she’s studying him, her brows drawn in and her mouth curled tight. “You really… you aren’t _bothered_?”

It takes him a moment. “About… your curse?” He waits for the little nod, takes his cup in hand and sips to collect his thoughts. “Marianne… I’ve spent a month here unbothered in your company, and that won’t change tomorrow.”

“But you—you were stuck here with me. You had no choice!” Lorenz sets down his cup.

“Well that is _patently_ untrue. And if I were as uncomfortable here as you seem to believe, I would have left once my legs were healed, riding or not.” He frowns. “I’ve said many times that I owe you gratitude, which is still true, but… as I have come to know you, I have also grown to consider you a friend. I would hope you might see me in the same light.”

“A friend,” she breathes, and he nods. “Yes,” Marianne says after a moment, soft as the little smile she covers with her teacup, “I would like that.”

🌕

They change routine as Marianne changes shape, Lorenz carrying books outside after their lunch, and they sit together in the wild garden. It's better for both of them, sunlight and fresh air scented by the thick overgrowth of flowers, instead of the dim dustiness of the library. Birds sometimes come to perch on Marianne's horns and shoulders, chirping and singing as her ears flick to listen. He sometimes watches her delicately turn a page with the tip of a claw, careful not to damage the book even as she concentrates on what she’s reading.

Lorenz chats with her, little observations about what they're reading, and they take occasional breaks for tea or to stretch their legs around the garden. Marianne introduces Lorenz to any number of local birds, the more adventurous ones alighting on his shoulders and preening his hair with their beaks. One evening as they retire to the house they even pass a fox, with which Marianne bargains a promise of eggs if it keeps out of her coop. It's odd to see her so sure and firm when she speaks with animals, after watching her shrink and wilt with him so often.

Sometimes, when the frustration of finding nothing in books begins to wear, Lorenz switches to volumes of poetry he’s never read before. Every once in a while he discovers a poem so well written he can’t help but be overcome, and no matter his reaction Marianne seems to pick it up; he reads each poem for her, and she nods thoughtfully or sighs or dabs her eyes. It’s familiar and comfortable, reminds Lorenz of his days studying at the Academy.

He and Monica von Ochs hadn’t exactly been a Dominic-Matritz duo, but few of their fellow students _were_ quite so attached at the hip. Still, he and Monica had shared a love of tea and a penchant for poetry, and several entry-level classes, and they had become something of friends and study partners. Once, he had considered—in his youthful quest for a ‘perfect noble bride worthy of Gloucester’—pursuing her hand. But Monica was already wholly married to her academics, and Lorenz had still held the hope that he would find a Suitable Bride whom he also _loved_.

Eventually, he had grown up and grown quite out of his desperate and frankly misguided search for a bride—he had better ways of benefiting his house and lands.

But the thought of Monica makes him wonder how she might go about the business of Marianne’s curse, and he thinks about writing her for advice. He’s not sure if she’s still in Fhirdiad, or back in Ochs or even Enbarr, and either one would be awfully far to send a single bird and hope the letter arrives. He’s already uncertain that his letter to his father was delivered, so instead he thinks back to their school days and Monica’s methods of study.

He looks through the books they had set aside, sorting out the personal writings from the magical texts and local histories. If he can discover more of the specific history of the curse afflicting Marianne’s family, it will be a starting point for breaking it down. 

Within moments of sitting down with the first personal journal, Lorenz finds himself frowning and leaning to flip through other journals and collected letters, until he glances at Marianne. She must sense his eyes on her, and she looks up from a jewel-blue bird that had been peeping quietly on her finger; it leaps into flight as she makes a curious noise.

“Marianne, are you—your family line, they’re von Edmunds?”

“Um, yes?” He can only blink at her a moment. “Is… that important?”

“They’re one of the Roundtable families, though it’s a somewhat recent change. It’s surprising that they would lose their main line this way with no one the wiser; I wonder what they reported in records…” he trails off quietly, frowning in distraction as he looks back at the journal he’s holding. He shakes himself after a moment. “At any rate, when we’ve broken your curse we shall have to arrange an introduction.”

“For— _why_?” 

“W—they are your family, are they not? Distant though they may be?” She looks more disturbed by this than anything, and he backpedals. “You don’t _have_ to meet them, of course. Think on it; there’s time.”

Her slow nod as she stands and says she has a few other chores to see to is answer enough.

🌕

Lorenz finds himself watching Marianne sometimes; there are moments he simply _becomes aware_ that he has been scrutinizing the moonstone gleam of her eyes, or the dark curl of her long eyelashes, or the curve of her mouth and slope of her shoulders when she is relaxed.

Today, he catches himself watching the breeze through her hair, the way it keeps lifting and tangling around her horns, locks dropping into her eyes.

For some reason, Lorenz thinks of his mother.

His mother had been ill all of his life, and bedridden for the end of hers, and a much younger Lorenz had spent hours seated on her bedspread and brushing out her hair as she told him stories. She'd been frail at the very end of her life, but she had never lost her beauty, and her hair had been long, dark waved silk across his small lap.

She had taught him to braid it, and his braids had never been so well-formed or intricate as the ones her lady's maid had crafted, but still she would call to Lorenz with a brush in hand and ask if her sweet boy wouldn't braid his mother's hair. She'd been smart—a genius, truly, when he had discovered her sorcery journals—and she had known, in the way little boys do not, that she was dying. His braids were clumsy, uneven, but loving, made to please her, and she _was_.

Lorenz can still remember the feel of the pull of a brush through her hair, and the motions of crossing strand over strand.

"Marianne," he says abruptly, as she hooks a long strand of pale blue away from her eyes and over a horn, "would you—perhaps I could…"

Her head swivels towards him, shoulders slightly raised, and more hair tumbles haphazard across her numerous eyes. "Yes?" Lorenz will never get over how she can sound timid in that great rumble. Somehow, it emboldens him.

"Forgive me if this is too forward, but may I assist you with your hair? I notice it seems to trouble you, and I would be delighted to remove a burden."

"R-remove?" she asks, alarmed, a clawed hand fluttering towards her hair, and he lifts his own hands.

"Oh, no, no, I've chosen my words poorly—I only meant that I might braid it for you, if you like, to hold it away from your eyes." 

“Um. That would be alright, I guess. If you want to.”

So Lorenz goes and gathers his brush and combs and a suitable length of ribbon from his bags, and when he returns he has her sit comfortably in the grass of the garden while he stands and carefully combs through her hair, untangling it from around her horns and the spines on her back. 

“Now, what sort of braid would you like? I could do one on each side, or a single, or—hmm, no, Adrestian buns would prove too bulky without pins…” He trails off, thoughtful, fingers combing through her hair to keep it from tangling.

“I don’t know,” she says, with a little frown. “I’m not very good at these sorts of things.”

“Ah, I’m useless at braiding my own hair,” he reassures her. “When I was young I braided my mother’s hair, so I’m much better at doing this for others. It’s easier when you can see everything your hands are doing, after all.”

“Whatever you think is best,” is all she says, and he hums and thinks for another second before nodding.

“I think I’ll try a crown, just to get the hair out of your face, and we can proceed from there.”

He sections out hair with the comb, weaves strand over strand, and she’s quiet except to answer when he asks if the braid is too tight, if he’s pulling too hard. Her eyes are closed, her breathing slow, and she’s relaxed enough he could almost imagine she might start to purr like an enormous house-cat. He’s nearly done when she says, without opening her eyes, “My mother died when I was very young. I barely remember her.”

“I’m sorry.” He presses his hand to her shoulder and she brings up her own, touches two fingers to the back of his hand. When he looks up from their hands, her eyes are open again, trained on him.

“It’s alright. For a very long time it was just me and my father. And then just me. It’s…” her gaze sweeps down again, “it’s nice, um. Having you here.”

“I’m glad,” he says, and he truly means it. “The circumstances could certainly be better,” he adds, “but I’m glad to meet you and become your friend, all the same.” The silence that follows is more comfortable, and he finishes the braid. His work isn’t perfect, but it’s neat enough to hold hair out of her eyes and keep it from tangling.

It’s pretty, but perhaps it needs something.

“Marianne, do you have a favorite flower?” he asks, and she hums in thought.

“I like lily of the valley, but I don’t grow any; they’re so poisonous.” Lorenz nods, and they’d be out of season, besides.

“What about flowers you _do_ grow?” Marianne tilts her head to look at him, and then turns and gestures to the gazebo in the corner of the garden.

“I’m fond of Moonflowers.” Lorenz remembers the white twisted buds all around the gazebo’s circumference and smiles; they’re delicate flowers that bloom at night, with huge white blossoms like the trumpets of morning glories and a strong, sweet scent. How appropriate. There will be nothing blooming now to tuck into her braid, and perhaps that’s for the best; he looks at her again and when he meets her eyes he decides she needs no embellishment to be perfectly lovely.

“What about you, Lorenz?” The question takes him a moment, and he blinks.

“Ah, roses. Particularly red.” Red wouldn’t be quite right for Marianne, though; something softer, a white or yellow—Cethleann’s Blush, a lovely pink rose the color of sunrise. They grow in the rose garden on the Gloucester estate, perhaps— 

But he’s getting ahead of himself. He has to break her curse before he brings her to look at roses _anywhere_. 

🌕

The second month seems to pass both slower than the first _and_ in the blink of an eye. It’s very quiet at the old Edmund estate, without the bustle of servants like his own home, or the constant noise of the Academy and the Faerghan capital surrounding it; the natural sounds of birds and breeze through the garden are soothing but too unfamiliar. The moments Lorenz is alone seem to drag on, but his conversations with Marianne always leave him wondering where the time went.

Almost before he knows it, it’s another full moon.

The first morning Marianne meets him in the kitchen before breakfast and asks to check his leg. Her inspection confirms what he had already felt, his leg is not completely healed but still much stronger, even as she gives him another strengthening boost. She pronounces him well enough for light riding, and she seems subdued through breakfast, but when he asks Marianne says she is only tired.

She’s busy the rest of the day, tasks that keep her from their usual garden studying, but when Lorenz offers to help she politely declines.

His time alone in the garden is fruitless; Lorenz cannot concentrate on the history he is skimming, and he closes the book with a snap. His research so far has turned up nothing, he is no closer to releasing Marianne from her burdens, and he must face the reality that he must choose another course of action.

When Marianne joins him in the kitchen for dinner, sleeves rolled up to rinse her hands, Lorenz feels a pang of uselessness.

"I think…" He trails off with a sigh, one hand at his hip, the other combing frustrated through the fall of his hair. "I'm sorry, Marianne; I'm afraid I cannot do this on my own, with the resources I have here." It bothers him, to have made statements that amounted to promises and not be able to fulfill them. But he's not versed enough in curses, and the literature in the Edmund library may give insight but it's nothing Lorenz can utilize. "I have to return home." 

"I understand," Marianne says without turning from the sink, strange and soft, and it prickles at his mind but he continues.

"I'm not certain the Gloucester libraries will yield better results, but I can check while I organize my affairs," he says absently, mind already working on what he will need to square away in Gloucester before he returns. "If I am lucky I might entice Lady Monica to return with me, she's far more expert—" Marianne’s head snaps around to look at him, her eyes wide, and Lorenz holds his hands up. “Of course, I won’t bring anyone without your approval, Marianne; after all, this is _your_ home. But my colleague, Lady Monica von Ochs, specializes in curses.” Marianne is still simply blinking at him, and he frowns.

If it is not Monica who is the issue— 

“Did—did you think I meant to leave _forever_?” Marianne's face crumples, which is answer enough. "Marianne, I… I swore to help with your curse, but more importantly, you are my friend. I care for you.”

“That doesn’t mean you’ll come back.” She says it with such certainty it chips at his heart; this is why she has been so withdrawn, isn’t it?

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

Marianne’s eyes move across the room aimlessly, settling on nothing before she squeezes them shut, her hands knotted together tight against her sternum. Her voice is strained when she finally speaks.

“I… my father never did. I told you he died. In truth, I don’t know what happened to him; he simply disappeared.” She opens her eyes to look at him, almost pleading. “My father was a wonderful man, and I know that he loved me, but that wasn’t enough to keep me from driving him away. I’m a beast.” Marianne looks away again, her voice going so soft he almost has to lean in. “You’ll see, eventually. You’ll realize, once you’re away, and you won’t come back.”

“Marianne… you aren’t a _beast_. You’re a young woman suffering under a horribly unfair curse, who doesn’t deserve to be left alone in the middle of nowhere her entire life just because of her blood.” He waits for her to look up and meet his gaze, wants her to see the sincerity in his eyes. “I will come back. I care for you, and I want to help you, and I _will_ return.” He holds out a hand, palm up. “Will you trust me?”

Marianne looks from his hand to his face, searches across it with her eyes, and must find something that reassures her. One of her hands uncurls and lifts to rest in his own. 

“Yes.”

🌕

Lorenz leaves the next morning; he has very little to pack, and it doesn’t take very long to set his map to rights. He regrets not staying until lunch at least, but the more daylight he has the better, and the longer he stays the harder it will be to leave.

He already feels terrible enough when he rides out and Marianne stands at the rusted gate and watches him leave, latching it behind him.

When he reaches the nearest town, the sun is just setting, and his leg is aching even with the slow pace he’d set. He needs to find an inn and rent a room, arrange for food and a letter to his father and to the Academy to ask after Monica.

The town’s inn is a bit more rundown than he expects, and looking around Lorenz sees signs of a failing village; the streets are quiet even this early in the night, businesses closed but no one seeming to be on their way home. The businesses he does see have a pitiful array of wares—weapons in the blacksmith’s window of the most basic craftsmanship, pottery and goods with a thin scattering of dust on them. Entering the inn he notices a sizable crowd in the common area, not centered on the bar but collecting around a man by the fireplace. Lorenz supposes it’s some sort of meeting, but he pays it little attention as he takes one of the seats at the bar, thinking only of dinner and bed.

Lorenz is eating a bowl of a somewhat watery, tasteless stew that has him missing Marianne’s cooking when the conversation grows rowdy and he glances over to the man at the fireplace. He’s dressed in a brick-red robe with burgundy accents, the very lightest bit of mage-armor on one arm; it’s a distinctly Adrestian fashion, as is the cut of his light brown hair. His face is harsh, hard and rectangular, with small, severe eyes over sharp cheekbones, and even sharper brows pinched over a hawk-like nose.

“Master Tynan,” one of the men at a table speaks up, “surely we would have noticed before _now_! This was some hundred years ago, surely the creature’s dead by now.”

“Have your children not gone missing?” The man, Tynan, asks with a gesture of his hand, as if he expects an answer placed in his palm. “Do they not disappear in droves?”

It’s not wholly irregular, for a small town like this along a trading route, especially so near to Edmund and its ports—young people in a failing town seeking out excitement and better prospects in a more prosperous city, and the town fails further as its lifeblood leaves, creating a cycle. These people would know that, and yet there are murmurs through the crowd. 

“You have believed your children abandoned their home in search of riches, but this creature is insidious,” Tynan continues, and Lorenz carefully sets his spoon in his bowl. “It has enticed your children away, slowly consuming your community. Will you let it continue? Will you wait until the children who remain are slaughtered, and all that is left are your empty homes?” The murmurs continue, and Lorenz feels a thrill of unease. “Will you let the beast of the woods stay in those ruins until it has ruined _you_ entirely?”

“She would _never_ ,” Lorenz says, before he can think, and his outburst swings every eye in the room to him.

“And you are, Sir?” Tynan asks, something like silk in his voice, and it makes Lorenz even more uneasy. But Lorenz can’t back down, it’s not in his nature, and this man is inciting a mob against Marianne for crimes she certainly would never commit. He turns entirely from his high seat at the bar, stands and inclines his head in as close a facsimile of a bow as he’s willing to give this scoundrel.

“I am Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, son and heir of Count Gloucester.” This creates a din, but it’s far more than he expected, far more gasping and round eyes than is usual over his status. Lorenz alone sees the flash of triumph across Tynan’s face before the man speaks.

“The very missing lord we are to watch for! How fortuitous that you have escaped the beast’s clutches, my lord.” 

“I didn’t _escape_ from _anything_ ; I was not a _prisoner_.”

More murmurs, and Tynan puts on a surprise that rings totally false to Lorenz as he says, “You were not with the beast in the abandoned estate?”

“She is _not_ —” Damn, _damn_ , Lorenz has let his indignation at hearing Marianne slandered so walk him right into this man’s trap. He knows better, _should_ know better, but he is tired and his leg _throbs_ and he regrets that he has left Marianne at all… “Marianne is not a _beast_ ; she would never harm anyone.” 

“There, you see?” Tynan says, eyes sweeping across the assembly. “The beast _ensnares_ ; even a Roundtable heir is not immune.” It is like a snare slipping tight, the sudden fear and suspicion that passes across their faces as they turn to look at Lorenz. He knows he only has one chance to escape this, to get out to his horse and ride to warn Marianne that a _mob_ is coming for her— 

Even as he lifts his hands, readies himself to cast, he feels the ice-chill of Silence sweep over him. “Seize him,” Tynan orders, and though most of the crowd seem reluctant, there is still a movement to grab him. Lorenz makes to turn, but the innkeeper had come up behind him without his noticing, and Lorenz nearly snarls as his arms are caught and wrenched behind him.

“But, he’s a noble—” comes a nervous protest from within the crowd, and Lorenz has a second of hope…

“Yes, under the thrall of a monster. We’ll confine him, for his own safety, and once the beast is slain he should come back to his senses.” Lorenz makes a desperate lunge, throwing his weight forward, and manages to wrench one arm free—

A blow falls on him from behind, and darkness takes him.

🌕 

Lorenz is beginning to grow tired of awakening in strange places.

This time, regrettably, he regains consciousness in what appears to be the inn's cellar; light filters in from a small window high in the wall, and he guesses he has been unconscious through until morning. His hands and feet are bound, and when he gives his fingers an experimental flex to test his magic, he groans in pain. His leg is one persistent ache, and there's a dull throb at the back of his head, a sting along his cheek; he must have caught himself on something when he fell.

Worse, he can feel the remaining chill of Silence, and Tynan is leaning against a nearby barrel.

"It is good to see you awake, my lord. I would like to speak with you, if I may?" The man's tone doesn't pose it as though Lorenz really has much option.

"I thought I was _enthralled_ ," he answers, in his most sarcastic drawl.

"Oh, certainly, but I've valiantly offered to try and break the thrall—it can be done, rarely." 

"I am not enthralled," he sighs, "and Marianne is not a monster; she is simply a woman under a curse—"

"Yes, yes, the last of the main line of von Edmund." Lorenz's eyes snap up in surprise. "I'm well aware of what lead to the family abandoning the estate in the first place."

"And yet you—you are—"

"Seeking to eradicate the creature?" Lorenz can only gape. "I assume you were at the estate, if you are familiar with the beast. Surely you can appreciate the value of its contents, not to mention the land itself? If the beast is removed and the land were claimed, there would be a sizable profit—”

“This is about _money_?” Lorenz can’t help the disgust laced in with his surprise, and Tynan tilts his head.

“What isn’t, my lord Gloucester? Your own family is not so pristine you may judge my motivations.” Lorenz swallows a protest, he is _not_ like his father, hungry and _grasping_ — “So. Will you assist us?”

“Assist?”

“In slaying the beast.”

“ _Never_!” It is almost a snarl.

“A shame. I had hoped we might take the beast by surprise through a familiar face, but our original plan shall work just as well.” Rage wells up in him, fueled by a boil of terror in his gut— 

“If you touch a _hair_ on her head I shall _kill_ you—” The bastard has the gall to _laugh_.

“Incredible! You actually _care_ for the creature. Well.” Tynan turns and begins to ascend the stairs out of the cellar, and halfway up he stops and looks at Lorenz over his shoulder. “Despair is as useful a tool as subterfuge; I shall be sure to let your precious beast know it was Lorenz Hellman Gloucester who sent a mob to slay it.”

“Don’t—Tynan! _Tynan_!” But the man is already gone, the sound of the door being latched his only response. Lorenz groans in frustration, his head falling back, and he hisses as it touches the wall behind him. “Think, Lorenz…”

First, he must rid himself of the Silence. It has been years since he practiced at the Academy, years since anyone would _dare_ to cast such a thing on him, and he is rusty, and agitated besides. He needs to calm down, to sink into the feel of his own magic and the force obstructing it, to pick at the blocks like unraveling a knot. It takes too long to calm enough, the sounds of too many moving feet through the floor above him, the occasional raised voice, all reminding him that Marianne is in danger and _he cannot help her_.

He has never felt so unsettled, not even Marianne’s own fear spell had made him feel this _dread_ —that had been an outer thing, like a coat thrown over him he might shrug off, but this fear radiates outwards from his bones, his lungs, his _heart_. 

Marianne is so sure she is an abomination fated to be abandoned, that even love is not enough reason to stay, and _Lorenz_ — 

_Oh_ , Lorenz _loves_ her.

Of _course_ he does; she is kind and gentle and good-hearted, beautiful through and through. Even in the shape of a beast, horned and fanged and clawed, he longs to be near her. Hopes to make her smile, to ease any burden for her.

Damn. _Damn_.

Lorenz lets the realization settle for a moment, and then sighs and gives his head a decisive shake; he _must_ focus. In a situation like this, the basics are best, and he settles his breathing into an old pattern his very first magic tutor had shown him. He’s finally calm and slipping the last knots of Silence when he hears movement outside the cellar door, and the rush of his own magic punctuates the sound of the latch and the turn of the knob.

It is not Tynan, but the innkeeper with what appears to be a meal for Lorenz. He sets the meal atop a barrel, and Lorenz is debating how to slip his bonds and use the situation to his advantage when the man turns, a knife in hand.

“Now,” he says, “Master Tynan said you weren’t to be approached ‘til the thrall broke, but I can’t see how starvin’ you ‘til then does anyone good. If I free your hands,” he gestures with the knife, “will you behave and eat your meal? No foolin’ around, or I’ll have t’hurt you again.” Lorenz cannot believe this absolute stroke of luck; commoners are always underestimating nobles, just as the reverse is true.

“Certainly.” Lorenz holds his bound wrists up in offer, and the man comes over with a wary eye and saws through the ropes. Lorenz makes a big show of rubbing his wrists as the innkeeper goes for the tray of food, and when the man turns around Lorenz is holding flame in both palms, the ropes that had bound his ankles falling away to ash on the dirt floor.

“Where,” Lorenz demands, pushing himself from the floor and drawing himself to his full height,” is Tynan?”

🌕

He rides harder than he should in the dark and with his leg, a lance stolen from the blacksmith’s display across his lap, and prays to a Goddess he hardly believes in that he will arrive in time.

Faced with a man whose hands were on fire, the innkeeper had spilled that Tynan and the mob had marched out that afternoon, and were planning to storm the estate at dawn. Lorenz had locked the man in his own cellar, and then gone to collect his horse and a weapon that couldn’t be disarmed by another Silence; Lady was too well trained to let a stranger ride her without Lorenz to smooth the way, and she had been left behind by the villagers.

As he had mounted up and turned to ride out, he glanced up at a rooftop and a thought struck him—two birds chattered on the eaves of the roof, and as foolish as he felt about it…

“If you know Marianne,” he had called, and prayed he wouldn’t startle them away, “and you can understand me, you must warn her she is in danger.” The little birds hopped and chattered, and then took flight. He wasn’t sure it had anything to do with him, but at least he _tried_.

Now, breaking through the tangle of undergrowth and onto the forgotten road that leads to Marianne’s estate as the sun rises, Lorenz urges Lady to move faster and hopes he is not too late.

As he nears the gate, he hears the commotion before he sees it, chaotic yells of fear, and then there are villagers running past him in terror; he thinks it is only the effect of Marianne’s fear spell, but among the yelling there are noises of animals— 

When Lorenz passes through the gate, he is met with a scene out of some children’s story, the courtyard around the fountain swarmed not just with the mob but also with animals: birds of different size and color are swooping at villagers’ faces, clawing and pecking; a buck with an impressive rack of horns swings its head side to side to clear space and lowers stance to charge; a crowd explodes into a flurry of movement as something low to the ground growls, snuffling and deep; Lorenz hears high yipping and sees the fox Marianne had bargained with, darting in to snap at a man’s heels. The animals ignore Lorenz, moving around him and Lady as they chase villagers from the courtyard.

This was not what he had expected when he sent his warning, but if it sends the villagers fleeing, Lorenz will take it.

He does not see Tynan or Marianne.

Lorenz makes his way to the door of the main house, raises his hands, and fires off a Sagittae above the heads of the mob; arrows of glowing blue light whistle over the crowd, and for a moment, the courtyard goes still as eyes move to him. He raises his hands again, the blue glow of black magic encasing them. “Return to your village and you will not be harmed. If you insist on staying… I assure you, the next volley will not miss.”

There is a second of silence, and then chaos again as the mob breaks, moving to flee. Lorenz only waits long enough to see the animals are ensuring no one decides to linger, and then he dismounts and turns to the open door, lance in hand as he darts inside. 

Daylight shows the great disturbance of dust up the staircase, and a shout from the upper floors draws Lorenz racing upwards, ignoring the shots of pain in his leg with every pounding step. “Keep away from me!” rings out, high and frightened even in her beast shape, and Lorenz rounds into a hallway; Marianne is at the far end, trapped against a doorway too small to quickly flee through, and the wave of her fear hits him and threatens to turn him. But he knows the feel of it, now, and he pushes through it, shoves the shivers down beneath his resolve to save her.

On the other side of the hall, a handful of men armed with rudimentary weapons are caught cowering, Lorenz blocking their exit. Still, Lorenz does not see Tynan.

Against the instincts screaming for him to flee, still trying to take him over with a flush of panic, Lorenz turns his back to Marianne and moves into a defensive stance with the lance, backing along the hall towards Marianne and guarding her from the men. “Marianne,” he calls, “get somewhere safe. I will find you.”

“Lorenz!”

“Go!” He hears her move behind him, sees the eyes of the men before him following her in terror. “Leave,” he orders, and when their eyes snap back to him he lifts the point of his lance. “I’m quite well trained in lancefaire,” he says, “and I don’t fancy your chances against me with a sword or a _pitchfork_. Go home.” He backs another careful step, jerks the tip of his lance towards the door, and after another breath the men break for it. Lorenz pauses just long enough to wipe sweat from his face as he listens to their retreat, and his sleeve comes away spotted red; the cut on his cheek must have begun to bleed again.

He shakes his arm and turns to follow Marianne, up through the twist of hallways, following her trail in the thickening dust. He hears another cry of, “Stay back!” from Marianne, followed by the shatter of glass, and he pushes himself into a breathless run.

In the middle of another small hallway lined in windows, glass doors leading to a balcony stand splintered open, shards of glass glittering across the stone beyond. A sudden horror grips his throat, chokes his breath, and he rushes out to glance over the edge of the balcony—” _Lorenz_!”

Marianne’s shout from behind is all that warns him as he whirls, lance drawn up before him, and there is Tynan—for a second they grapple over the shaft of the lance, Tynan pressing him back against the balustrade, still trying to shove him over like a coward. Lorenz lifts his good leg and drives his heel into Tynan’s shin, and he swears and stumbles back, releasing the lance. Behind him, Lorenz can see Marianne where she has scrambled onto the roof, claws dug into the tiles as she clings.

The ice of another Silence hits him, but Lorenz falls into stance and lets muscle memory take over, pacing the balcony opposite Tynan as the man’s hands lift and light. Lorenz sidesteps a spell, jabs, and scores a slice along Tynan’s torso. Tynan grimaces, his eyes narrowed in hatred as he barks out a laugh.

Lorenz sidesteps another spell, feels it graze him and hears Marianne shriek as his breath goes short and weakness runs up his legs, Tynan standing straighter and panting less—Nosferatu, the bastard hit him with a _Nosferatu_ , and Lorenz no longer has time to play with the man.

Lorenz doesn’t pick through the knots of the Silence so much as rip through them with brute force, a painful sear of heat through his veins as he pulls up his spell and blasts it reckless and overloading directly into Tynan’s chest. The blue bolt of Agnea’s Arrow shoots through him, the force hurling him over the edge of the balcony and out of sight.

Lorenz’s knees buckle, and he catches himself on hands and knees short of collapsing entirely. He can hear tiles falling from the roof as Marianne scrambles down to meet him, calling his name. “Careful—” he coughs, pushes himself up so that he’s only kneeling, “be careful of the glass, Marianne.”

“Oh, bother the glass,” she says, and he blinks up at her as she crouches beside him. “You came back.”

“Of course I did, I swore I would.” And more, of course, but. 

“But it was _dangerous_ , you’ve been hurt again because of me—!” She’s frowning down at him, her hands hovering as if she’s holding back from checking him for wounds, and he sighs, reaches up to take her hand. It curls around his easily.

“It’s nothing, Marianne, truly. Are _you_ unharmed?” She is still frowning. “Marianne, really, I’m alright.”

“You shouldn’t have come back.” Now Lorenz frowns, tightens his hold.

“I couldn’t just let you be attacked; if you’d been _hurt_ —I cannot stomach it.” 

Marianne ducks her head, says, “I’m fine. I—I would have been fine.”

“Dearest, you were trapped on the _roof_ —” her hand tightens on his in surprise, and he realizes he is far more tired than he thought. “I’m sorry. ...No, I must tell you, Marianne; I have said I care for you, but to say so doesn’t adequately cover the _depth_ …” 

“Lorenz?” 

He looks up at her, the confusion on her face, and he knows it isn’t enough to simply say he loves her—he is not sure she believes she _can_ be loved. Lorenz pushes himself to his feet, Marianne helping him, their hands still clasped tight.

“Marianne… you’ve suffered, all alone, and it pains me that you blame yourself; you aren’t a monster or a beast, only a person who has been horribly wronged. A person I care for, someone exceptionally lovely through and through—you are thoughtful, kind, and gentle, and so very _strong_ to have persisted.” He looks down at their hands, his own hand so small in hers, and then back to search her face. “I do not expect any return,” he says, “but I must confess that I have fallen in love with you.”

“ _Oh_!” It comes out breathless, and again, “ _Oh_.” She blinks, twice, and he lifts a hand towards her face, a bit worried.

“Don’t—don’t _cry_ , Marianne—” little beads of tears glimmer like stars in the glow of her eyes, and she lifts her free hand, wipes at her closed eyes.

“No, I— _truly_? Even though...”

“Truly. Completely and absolutely, no matter your shape.”

“Oh,” and this time it’s a sigh. “I feel the same. I also—I love you.” It’s so shy and soft, and it makes Lorenz feel for a second as though he isn’t aching and exhausted. He smiles at her, and then her hand tightens on his again, her eyes widening, “Lorenz?”

The glow of her eyes seems to brighten, until Lorenz realizes it is not her eyes but _all_ of her, so bright he lifts a hand to shield his vision, squinting through his fingers, and he can _feel_ the shift of her hand in his own, from encompassing to encompassed, and when the light fades it is only Marianne, smaller and _human_. She lets go of his hand at last, lifting her shaking fingers to look at them, turning her hands back and forth. Her head snaps up to look at Lorenz, a fearful hope on her face.

“L-Lorenz?” He reaches out, laughs once at his own shaking fingers as he brushes her hair back from her face, cups her cheeks in his hands.

It’s one of the oldest curse-breaks, something you cannot teach or _learn_ , something Lorenz would never have considered.

“Love,” he says, through another light laugh, “love can break curses.” She smiles at him, brighter and brighter, until Marianne is smiling the most radiant smile Lorenz has ever seen.

He has no choice but to kiss her.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Find me on twitter at [@AceMorningStar](https://twitter.com/AceMorningStar)


End file.
